on faith and little children

When did we cross the line from complete freedom of action to self-consciousness? When did what people say about us start to matter and we had to convince them we are a hairline away from being omniscient and omnipotent? When did we learn to hide behind the niceties of language and mask our true feelings?

And why does the thought of kids making me ask these questions?

When I’m with my nephews in a public place and I stray away from their sight—whether it’s five seconds or five minutes—there’s a good chance I will hear my name shouted, in the same way, say, a panicking woman in the outskirts of Tondo facing a towering inferno would scream, “SUUUNOG!” Just last week, we were at SM and the two boys were with their mother in the giftwrapping section at the 1^st level. I notified my sis-in-law that I had to go find something at the 2^nd level. Midway through the escalator, I heard my name as if it was being announced through the public address system: “TITTTA BENNNNG!” From the moving stairs, I saw two small creatures near the 1^st level counter waving excitedly to me as if we weren’t together two minutes ago. How could one person be touched and mortified at the same time? Believe me, it’s possible. Case in point: Me.

This scenario gets played out in other settings: the grocery, at church, video shop—name it, they did the name-shouting exercise, only in varying decibels in the different instances. I am learning my lesson: Stay as close to them as possible in public if I don’t want everybody to know who the missing aunt is.

But after my lapse of momentary embarrassment, the truth is I don’t really mind at all. Because kids are devoid of self-consciousness. And they usually mean no harm (usually being the operative word here). In general, little children simply just say whatever is on their minds, and do what they feel like doing. Sure, they need discipline but I think 60% of the time, they're really just being kids. When I'm outside and see mothers shaking their kids to coerce “respectable behavior” even if what all their kids do are harmless forms of fun, I feel like shaking their mothers back and saying, “They’re kids. They won’t be forever kids so let them act their age.”

Honest and needy. Vulnerable and trusting. Little children know they can’t survive on their own so they ask for help. For you to open the can of sausage. Cook their favorite noodles. Buy their snack. Tie their shoelaces. Comb their hair. Count their coins. Read the label. Stay close by when they feel afraid. No pretense of self-sufficiency. No apologies for dependence.

Maybe that’s the reason why Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. I tell you the truth, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it” (Mk 10:14-15).

For who else but the most trusting of little children could best show us what it means to be needy and come to God by faith, expecting not to be turned away but welcomed in all His grace?

slice of heaven

“I haven’t told Nang yet but that’s what I want for my birthday.”

That, incidentally, refers to the ubiquitous cake that has become a staple fare in any middle-class Filipino celebration. And the hopeful wisher for the cake is Rae, another older sister, also based in the US, a nurse, and a mother of two.

I talked to her just recently. Most of our conversation revolved around her two kids, the eldest of which, Ethan, can say in his cute way, “I love chicharon.” Rae told me this US-born toddler has very pinoy tastebuds. He eats whatever his dad eats. Boy Bawang, beef jerky—only time will tell what else. Did I tell you he’s just about to turn three?

Going back to the sis, I don’t get to talk to her much but when I do, we almost always erupt into laughter. Here’s a partial transcript of our exchange:

“Bili mo ako ng lucky me pancit canton, yung maliit.”

“Magkano ba diyan yun?”

“Mga 3 for 1 dollar.”

“Okay na yun. Isipin mo dadalhin ko pa diyan.”

“Ah alam ko na. Ang gusto ko talaga Goldilocks cake eh. Gusto ko pagdating kina Nang, yun ang kakainin ko.”

“Ha? Meron bang Goldilocks sa New Jersey?”

“Wala. Eh baka pwede niyang orderin.”

“Sinabi mo na ba sa kanya na yun ang gusto mo?”

“Hindi pa.”

“Ano bang flavor gusto mo, try kong aralin gawin.”

“Ayoko! Siyempre iba ang lasa nun. Iba ang ingredients diyan kaysa dito.”

“Eh di magdadala ako ng ingredients diyan. Sige na, sabihin mo. Titikman ko dito, aaralin kong gawin.”

“Ah basta gusto ko Goldilocks cake. Gusto ko yung nasa BOX ng Goldilocks.”

“Magdadala ako ng box!”

Nobody won in our verbal tug-of-war but the phone company who was made richer by the many seconds we wasted on the long distance call just laughing.

In the end I wasn’t able to convince my dear sister that I was serious about baking her a cake because she doesn’t want any other cake. Maybe it’s the taste of the familiar she is craving for. The taste of home. Of her days as a nursing student at Makati med. Of her medrep days for Wyeth. Even if by some miracle I could bake a cake that tastes just as good as Goldilocks, or even better, it still wouldn’t be enough. Because nowhere could I buy an ingredient packaged in a box labelled memories.

I promised to go to Goldilocks and ask how long the shelf life for their cakes is. She said she could settle for a half-roll of chocolate and mocha. I’m not sure yet how I could protect them from getting crushed in my luggage. But then again, there’s no way the boxes of rolls will be checked in.

Next time I'll eat a Goldilocks cake, I think I'll have a better appreciation for it. Because somewhere across the globe, a Pinay needs no diamong ring, no fancy car, no expensive clothes to make her happy. Just a slice of an all-too familiar cake will do.

Postscript: I found a Goldilocks website that serves online orders in the US. There's a 99% chance my sister is getting her birthday wish. Now I think it's a good thing she doesn't check out this blog often. Or else, I'll spoil it for her. The surprise, not the cake. ;)

cold spaghetti on a cluttered desk

What do you get when you eat cold spaghetti on top of a cluttered desk?

A break.

This mid-afternoon snack is punctuating an otherwise frantic and mentally challenging day. The noodles said goodbye to firmness, the meat sauce coagulated already, thanks to its stay inside the ref (said spaghetti was supposed to be my lunch yesterday). With a forkful of the stale pasta, I think of another meal I could have, maybe in a faraway beach somewhere. There, my newly-cooked pasta is served with a tall glass of juice, the kind with a decorative but completely useless tiny umbrella on top. I could be holding a book, with earphones plugged in my ear playing my favorite songs.

But I'm not there. Instead, the music I hear comes blaring from a generic speaker that came with my office pc, but it's music nonetheless. Michael W. Smith is singing for me, "This is my daily bread...And I'm desperate for You...."

Cold spaghetti on a cluttered desk. That's all I have now. Yes, things could be better but I'm not complaining. Because when I start thinking of what I don't have, I might miss out on enjoying what's in front of me—what I can feel, see, hear, touch, taste.

And I thank God. Because even the capacity to enjoy things, imperfect as these might seem, also comes from Him. The garden is not always abloom with beautiful flowers. Life does not always follow the script you have in mind. Sometimes you get the flu that renders you humorless and lethargic.

The taste of cold spaghetti might not be enough to fill a hungry stomach but the assurance of God’s love, with His mercies fresh every morning, is more than enough to fill a hungry soul. With that remembrance from Above, even the stale and day-old pasta can taste like the most delicious meal in the world.

Try lang

Two years na. Two years na akong nagbablog. Para sa entry na ito, naisipan kong magsulat naman sa Tagalog. Baka naman sabihin niyo na sa Inglisera ako sa tutuong buhay. Pero mapapansin ninyo siguro na hindi straight Tagalog ang gagamitin ko. Kasi tayo namang mga Pilipino, di naman talaga tayo ganun magsalita. Maliban na lang kung ang apelyido mo ay Balagtas at may dahon ka sa buhok.

Sa kauna-unahang post ko, inamin kong di ako marunong magbisikleta at lumangoy. Eto ang update: Di pa rin ako marunong. Ewan ko ba, ang dapat ko yatang matutunan ay paano ba tumapang para di na ako matakot magasgasan ng braso sa pagbibisikleta o di matakot na malunod sa paglangoy. Pero sabagay, kailangan ko ba talagang matutunan yung dalawang iyon? Wala naman akong bike at wala naman kaming swimming pool sa bahay. Sabi nga ni Gary V, di bale na lang. At least marunong na akong mag-blog.

Malapit nang mag araw ng mga puso. Bakit ganon? Kung may araw ng mga puso, di ba unfair yun sa baga, atay, at bituka? Importante din naman sila. Sige, try mong ipantanggal kahit isa sa kanila at tingnan natin kung magbirthday ka pa. Di lang nga cute ang shapes nila para ipandecorate sa mga cards at ipanghulma sa mga chocolates. Kahit yata crush ko ang magbigay sa akin ng card na korteng baga, baka di ko ikatuwa. Malamang ang dedication nun, “You’re the reason I breathe.” On the second thought, kung gusto ko pala siya, okay lang iyon.

Nakita ko pala si Michael V two weeks ago sa Podium. I really like his humor. Naka-tshirt at maong lang siya. Simpleng-simple lang ang dating niya kaya halos di ko siya mapansin nang magkasalubong kami. For one second naisip kong magpapicture kasama niya kaso naisip ko, “Beng, nasa Podium ka. Isipin mo na lang artista ka din na nagma-malling.” So ayun, napigilan ko ang sarili ko at ginawa na lang ay magtext sa ilang kaibigan tungkol sa celebrity apparition na nakita ko.

Hanggang dito na lang muna ang Tagalog post ko. Nagkuwento lang po ako, mga kaibigan. I’m not sure if it’ll stay posted here for long. Malamang after ilang days, makornihan ako sa sarili ko at tanggalin ito. But it wouldn’t hurt to try to do this once naman, di ba? Besides, I’m taking my own advice about giving in to some of my impulses or I won’t be able to do it, ever. In this case, writing in our native language. Because for all I know, the desire to do something this unusual will be gone before... I even finish writing this post. There. I’ve just proven myself right. But hey, I enjoyed doing this post somehow. Just like eating cotton candy. No nutritional value but all fun.

fish tale

I was ready today. But no, of all the days when I am finally deciding on it, my desire for it was dashed by seven words from the other person on the line when I dialed 8-7000:

"Ay, sorry Ma'am, wala na po yun." (Sorry Ma'am, we don't have it anymore.)

"Ha? Ngayon pa na gusto ko na siya." (What? Now that I decided I wanted it.)

To say I was disappointed is an understatement.

I am talking about Jollibee's crispy bangus belly with rice. Almost every time I eat at the fastfood, or we order at the office, this meal comes to mind. I've always wondered how it tasted and now, of all days, when I am finally ready,

No more. Nada. Zilch.

My fault, really, because I took it for granted. Who would have thought that the great smiling Bee would take it off its list? I should have thought more and remembered the short but stellar reign of another meal, The Honey Beef Rice (which I enjoyed so much before it was it was taken off the menu. From the grapevine I heard that some people developed allergies to it.)

Here's another true-to-life lesson underscoring the importance of holding on to life's opportunities tenaciously. Of not eternally stacking your desires and wishes—especially those you have control over—in the invisible yet real before-I-die-I-will-do-this pile.

Life is too short for us to be in a perpetual party of regret. Mark my words: The next time I see something I want, I will grasp it with both hands and not let go. The moment I hear the first strains of the music, I will dance.

If a big fish can make Jonah realize something profound, then why not a fried fish belly have a similar moving effect on me? :) Carpe diem.

Breaking News (as of Feb.9,2007): A very reliable source told me that this dish will soon make a momentary comeback. Clearly, the heavens decided to give me another chance. Now, let's just wait till the Philippines is in a holy mood to celebrate with me.

seeing an ordinary miracle

I'm learning a new song, thanks to a pig, a spider and their remarkable friendship. When you come across a song as simple and charming as this, nothing else needs to be said.

Ordinary Miracle by Sarah McLachlan (from the movie, "Charlotte's Web")

It’s not that unusual when everything is beautiful
It’s just another ordinary miracle today
The sky knows when it's time to snow
Don’t need to teach a seed to grow
It’s just another ordinary miracle today

Life is like a gift they say
Wrapped up for you everyday
Open up and find a way
To give some of your own

Isn’t it remarkable?
Like every time a raindrop falls
It’s just another ordinary miracle today

Birds in winter have their fling
But always make it home by spring
It’s just another ordinary miracle today

When you wake up everyday
Please don’t throw your dreams away
Hold them close to your heart
Cause we are all a part of the ordinary miracle

Ordinary miracle
Do you want to see a miracle?

It seems so exceptional
Things just work out after all
It’s just another ordinary miracle today

The sun comes up and shines so bright
It disappears again at night
It’s just another ordinary miracle today

It's just another ordinary miracle today

nanny duty

Yesterday I clocked out of work on the dot. A more pressing matter was waiting for me at home. Two words: Nanny duty.

But before I boarded the south-bound bus, I swung by 7-11 to buy microwaveable popcorn, the only food specifically requested by one of my wards. Last night was "movie" night and I needed the popcorn to complete the moviehouse effect.

Pong, 6, and Robyn, 4, excitedly greeted me the moment I stepped into the room. By instinct, Pong collects the DVDs for last night’s showing: Chicken Little, Mr Bean, and Justice League.

If you haven't tried watching TV or a movie with kids, you should try it sometime. The entertainment value is upped not by what's on screen but by the reaction of the little creatures beside you who will infect you with their excitement. Pong saw something that made him laugh hard and insisted that I see it. He rewinds the part where a monster-enemy of Justice League spits fire. I didn’t quite get what was amusing about it but I laughed anyway.

Approaching the second hour of my duty, I asked permission from them if I could close my eyes for a while (the three of us were cramped in their parents' bed). Just when I was starting to doze off, Robyn signaled to his brother to tickle me, and thus the source of their delight was transferred from the laptop screen to their helpless half-asleep aunt startled by tiny fingers on her back. The next time I tried to steal a nap, a feather duster was brushed over my neck seconds after I closed my eyes.

I wave the white flag in surrender. No nanny can sleep with two precocious boys on her watch. Boys, in general, are probably harder to entertain than girls. For the next hour or so, they wrestled and I refereed. They played Chuzzle and Zuma and I coached. They worked on their coloring books and I gushed.

Last night I hit the bed with a sense of satisfaction for a job well done. No, not for the nine hours I logged in at work editing books. More for the three-and-a-half hours I spent keeping my two nephews entertained. I might not have been paid a single cent but I won’t hesitate on saying it’s one of the best jobs in the world.